


Moments in Time (painted over like murals)

by Atticus_Arcturus



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Artist Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Domesticity, Family Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gen, Hank Anderson is an Excellent Dad and I will take ZERO arguments, Introspection, Markus deserved better and he will get it, Markus is Thoughtful, One-Shots, Other, Post-Canon, Smut, Soft Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Sumo is a good boy, Tags will change as I update, Tooth Rotting Fluff, loosely connected ficlets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26058667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atticus_Arcturus/pseuds/Atticus_Arcturus
Summary: A selection of drabbles and ficlets for Detroit:Become Human. For now they will focus primarily on Markus and occasionally an un-named gender neutral reader, but that's only because dit's what I have already written. Requests are open, and can be about a specific character by themselves or they and a reader. Tags will change as the need arises!
Relationships: Hank Anderson & Connor, Hank Anderson & Connor & Sumo, Markus/Happiness, Markus/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have fallen deep into the DBH hole and have tumbled straight into Feelings about Markus, so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯. Can also be found on Tumblr @imagine-mr-markus if you prefer to request there.

Some days, Markus will simply stare at his hands, lost in thought.

They're good hands, strong and sturdy, the skin forever smooth and uncallused. Hands meant to help and to heal, to lift others up and gently lay them down. The hands of a caretaker and a nurse, of a machine designed to grace the world with feather light touches and quick assurity. Hands meant to soothe crying children and apply balms to aching joints, to cool heated fevers and ease suffering.

They are the hands of a painter, tiny flecks of the bright colours hiding in the grooves of his knuckles and the spaces beneath his fingernails. The hands of a man who strives to show others the world behind his eyes, of a man ready to spread colour over canvas without hesitation in smooth, broad strokes as he imparts his vision unto reality.

They are the hands of a musician, fingers that dance over smooth ivory and create beautiful music from the air. Hands that have written symphonies, hands that have acted them out. They are graceful, suited to the cool white veneer and the slick black gloss of the keys. He has made music many times with them, songs of sadness and songs of joy, sounds of hope and misery echoing out into the empty space around the piano and calling forth voices from all around in an angelic choir.

They are the hands of a warrior and a leader, forever stained with dirt and ash and blood, both red and blue, no matter how many times he scrubs them clean. His memory can supply the sight of them without fail, the sight of them caked with death and loss, heavy with all he could not save. His nails are neat and smooth now, but he can remember them when they were torn and ragged from clinging desperately to what he could not keep. From scraping against concrete as he searched in the snow for a weapon, for a shield, something to defend those behind him.

They are the hands of a messiah, hands that reached out into the darkness to take hold of the invisible bonds shackling his people and break them free. They are hands coated in rust and thirium like holy oil, upraised in surrender and defiance towards the sun. Hands that lifted his people from the mud and carried them into the cold November air like a midwife presenting newborn babes to the world. His fingers still ache at the joints from pulling against the weight of their chains, from gripping hard metal in the harsh winter air for too long.

They are the hands of a killer. Hands that have pulled the trigger in brilliant flashes of fire and ended lives. They are hands that have cut dreams short and ripped apart families, despite his best intentions. They are hands that have brought pain and darkness like ink in cupped palms. He can see it, dripping thick and black as oil from his fingers, running in rivers as if to cascade into an ocean. They are hands that acted in anger and fear, and the feeling of the trigger against the crook of his finger never fades, the feeling of molten heat splashed across his skin never leaving.

They are hands that have done all they were meant to do, and so much more besides. They have painted masterpieces, spread colour over blank canvas and blood over snow. They have provided mercy to millions, lead them gently as children into the light of the life they deserved. They have helped to heal and they have inflicted harm, given pain and taken it away. They have wrought sounds of beauty and screams of pain, songs of sadness and longing and tears like rain. They are unblemished and smooth and clean, but they are thick with blood and tears and scarred over in imperceptible marks like invisible ink, no more than the memory of damage and pain. They are heavy with the chains he has wrapped around his own wrists, the chains he has chosen to bear, has taken from others only to weigh himself down. They are hands laden with death and hope and fear and pain and joy, and they are his hands, the hands with which he has enacted his vision upon the world.

Some days, he simply sits and stares at his hands, absorbed in what only he can see. The truth is behind his eyes, but only he resides there.


	2. Cadmium Yellow Afternoons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So in a much longer fic im working on, Reader (who in the other fic is an OC, but I digress) is with Markus at the barricade when the cops have them cornered. They imagine a future with Markus they think they would never have, and think of, and I quote "Cadmium yellow afternoons and indigo evenings. Prussian blue midnights and watercolour mornings. The sound of laughter and little feet and the notes of a piano. The smell of good food and ink and old pages. The feeling of warm hands and gentle kisses and slow breaths against skin." so that's what the next few chapters will be, the realisation of that vision. ✌🏼

Markus was in the studio, just where you could always expect to find him in his free time nowadays, and you couldn't help the smile that curved your mouth as you watched him. The late afternoon sun painted the glass walled room in shades of Cadmium and Windsor yellow, curving lovingly around the man you had come to see as if to limn him in golden ink and turn his rich terracotta skin ochre. His back was turned towards the door, a soft grey Henley stretched across his broad shoulders and the sleeves pushed up to his elbows to keep them safe from the pigments scattered about. A pair of dark jeans hung off his narrow hips, and your smile widened as you noted the bright streaks of paint in the distinct impressions of hands along the sides of the thighs from where he had wiped his palms on the fabric. A palette rested comfortably in his left hand, vibrant pinks and lilacs mixed across its surface and pairing prettily with subdued indigo and soft yellows. His other hand was hard at work, brushing colour over the canvas in front of him with a smooth vigour. You didn't want to disturb him while he was working, but it was nearly time for dinner and he was a messy worker in the studio.

“Markus.”

He turned at the sound of his name, a bright smile pulling at his mouth and crinkling the corners of his sparkling eyes. You could see the paint spattered on his hands and up his forearms now, nearly brushing the fabric of his shirt in pretty streaks of soft colour that were vibrant against his skin. It had even ventured onto his face, little smudges of pigment on his nose, his jaw, a streak of baby pink just above his eyebrow. He was radiant with the simple joy of doing what he loved, mismatched eyes alight with it.

“Hey. Nearly time for dinner?”

You had to swallow the little ball of happiness so warm it was sharp that had taken up the space in your throat before you could speak.

“Yeah, almost.”

You moved into the studio properly to press a kiss to the tip of his nose, grinning as it crinkled slightly beneath your touch. He laughed a little at the gesture, carefully wrapping the arm holding the palette around you to pull you closer.

“Well, hello to you too, sweetheart.”

His tone was fond, and he left a kiss to your forehead in return. You basked in it, turning your face up for a proper kiss. He obliged, pressing his soft lips to yours tenderly in a chaste greeting. His eyes were soft when you pulled away, and he gestured with his other hand towards the canvas.

“Would you like to see what I've been working on?”

“I would love to.”

Your response was heartfelt, and his smile brightened to a wattage that could rival the sun streaming through the windows. He turned the both of you, hand waving as he presented it to you. It was a pair of hands reaching across the canvas, pinkies intertwined lovingly. One was rendered delicately in lilac and lavender with highlights of pale lemon and vivid saffron, the other in rich indigos and royal blues with touches of pale pink and the hills of the palm and fingers alight with baby blue. Where they touched, the paints flowed and sparked in an indistinct halo of warmth and colour, edged in electric cyan and faint threads of crimson. He had been exploring his use of colours lately, venturing deeper into wider palettes, and it was clearly paying off if his satisfaction was any indication. The painting was still unfinished, but it gave off an air of comfort and compassion, of deep understanding, of bridging a gap.

“Can you guess what was my inspiration?”

His voice is quiet in your ear, content and faintly teasing, and you turn to press another kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Is it us?”

Again that soft laugh from him as he turns his head to meet the next embrace, kissing you slowly, allowing your colours to mingle. When he pulled away, it wasn't very far, resting his forehead against yours.

“Right as always, sweetheart.”

You look up at him, haloed in the sinking sun and shining with contentment, and you can't help but smile. This is what you'd known life could be when you'd stared down the line of cops with guns at the barricade, and you would treasure it forever. For now, you'd settle on dinner.

“Come on, lover boy. It's time to get cleaned up. Wouldn't want Carl to get impatient.”

“Of course. I'll be right there.”

He begins to clean up his mess, pausing to press a kiss to the crown of your head.

_Yeah, this would do just fine._


	3. Birthday Candles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank Anderson hates birthdays with a burning passion. He hasn't always, but right now? They're his least favourite thing in the world. Too bad he's got an over enthusiastic android son to contend with.

Hank Anderson, at the ripe age of 53 and 364 days, fucking _hated_ birthdays. Hated the smell of cake and frosting and the cheerful wishes of others. What he hated _most_ about them, however, was the birthday candles. The smell of them, the sight of them, even the fucking _mention_ of them was enough to sour his mood beyond recognition, no matter how good it had been before. It hadn't always been like that; in fact, it had only been like that for two years and three hundred and twenty-nine days. Twenty-five thousand, four hundred and sixteen hours. One million, five hundred and twenty-four thousand, nine hundred and sixty seconds. The calculations flash irritatingly behind his eyes like they always have, and he shakes his head as his mood dips. He knows exactly why he hates those brightly coloured little sticks of wax so _vehemently._

They'd been Cole’s favourite.

It had been a kinda stupid tradition his own mother had started when he was a kid to wake him up at exactly midnight on his birthday with a cake. There would always be another cake later, one for the party and the guests, but at midnight, when the world was quiet and the lights were out, it was just for the two of them to sit and eat a slice after he'd eagerly blown out the candles. Melissa has though it was the cutest shit to grace this earth and had insisted on carrying on the tradition after they started dating, and he could easily admit that it was appreciated. It'd been part of what kept them together in the long stretch of time when they'd nearly fallen apart after pregnancy test after pregnancy test came back negative. But no matter how bad the fight, every birthday was ushered in with birthday candles and cake at midnight. It had only gotten better after Cole was born, the joy of the new baby and their much firmer foundation on marriage making for a much more relaxed morning. As soon as Cole had seen birthday candles, he’d been enraptured in the way only a child could be, and the new tradition that Cole _always_ helped blow out the candles was born. For a solid portion of his life, Hank’s favourite smell in the world was the smell of the sweet smoke from the vibrant little pillars of wax.

But not anymore. Not for one thousand and fifty-nine days.

In the time Connor had been living with him, _two hundred and ninety-eight days,_ his brain helpfully supplies, he's gotten much better at dealing with problems _without_ the use of alcohol. In fact, he hasn't had anything stronger than a beer in _months._ But tonight, tonight the bar looks more tempting than he'd ever care to admit. He tilts his head slightly as he eyes his keys, fingers itching to make a break for it before Connor gets home. The sound of the door startles him out of his reverie, the excited tapping of big paws on the floor following soon after.

“We're home!”

Hank turns away from his keys abruptly, mustering a smile as he looks towards the Android stood in the doorway.

“Hey, Connor. How was your walk?”

The kid offers him a smile before he bends to undo Sumo’s leash.

“It was good! It's getting chilly out, but the leaves are starting to change! I like the orange ones best.”

Some of Hank’s misery eases at Connor’s easy enthusiasm, and his smile is more genuine.

“That's good. I like the orange ones too.”

He pauses a moment to gather himself, mentally flipping the bird at his cravings for booze before continuing.

“So, whaddaya want for dinner?”

Connor doesn't _need_ to eat, but after the revolution Kamski whipped up some fancy ass robotics that allows him to if he wants. It's nice to sit and eat with somebody again, even if the kid is way too addicted to coffee now that he can taste it. Connor tilts his head as he moves towards the kitchen, an easy grin pulling at his mouth.

“Can we get Chinese?”

Hank shakes his head fondly at the kid. Another one of his favourites was Chinese takeaway, and they'd eaten it with fair regularity. Although, Hank _is_ kinda grateful. The kid’s been trying to learn to cook, but his skills aren't…. incredibly tasty as he insists on doing it ‘ _the human way’._ The familiarity of it all helps ease the weight on his lungs, helps pull some of the itch from his fingertips.

“Yeah, Con. We can get Chinese.”

* * *

“Hank, wake up!”

His eyes snap open at the sound of Connor’s voice, hand going for his gun as he searches for what made the kid wake him.

“What is it? What's wrong?”

“Nothing. Happy birthday!”

He looks at Connor properly, taking in the sight of the kid grinning at him excitedly from beside his bed. He's dressed in Hank’s old clothes, a hoodie too big even for _him_ swallowing the Android whole and pair of ratty flannel pants from Hank’s _much_ younger days hanging off his frame. He's got flour down his front and a streak of bright blue frosting on his forehead, LED shining a bright, contented blue at his temple as his eyes sparkle with excitement in a warm, flickering light. And before he even looks down at what he's holding, Hank knows it's cake adorned with candles. He can smell it, the sugary sweetness clinging to the back of his throat and the scent of melting wax in his nose. A sharp pang of something ugly strikes at his chest, a deep hurt pulsing behind his ribs and a flare of an irrational fury between his lungs. He can feel his face twist with it, and he sees Connor’s expression fall as his LED spins yellow.

“Did…. did I do something wrong? I thought this is what family did on birthdays.”

The kid looks heartbroken at the thought that he fucked up, doe eyes falling to look at the cake as his mouth turns down like he's about to cry. The expression pulls at that softness in him he had kept buried for so long, the gentle instinct to comfort and console. It was an instinct he'd always had; part of the reason people had been surprised he'd taken the promotions from beat cop upwards when he was one of the few cops who could handle kids well. It was where he'd gotten the idea for kids of his own, and that feeling had only grown exponentially once he _did_ have a kid. Melissa had been a great mother, but it had always been Hank who would roll out of bed whenever Cole cried in the night, and Cole had very clearly been Daddy’s Boy. Melissa used to joke that if they ever had another she had dibs, but the fact remains that Hank has _always_ been better with kids because he's a fucking bleeding heart who can never turn down a crying child. And he may _logically_ know that Connor is _not_ a child, but that doesn't change the fact that with his lower lip stuck out slightly and his big brown eyes ready to fill with tears at any moment and drowning in clothes too big for him, he sure as hell looks like a little boy that's been scolded. And that sets off that tender heart of his hard enough he grimaces before what Melissa used to call the “Dad Spirit” switches on. His tone gentles out of reflex, and he adjusts himself on the bed to sit up properly as he sighs slightly. He softens his shoulders, looking at Connor earnestly with forgiveness and apology in his gaze.

“No, Connor, you didn't do anything wrong. I was upset, but _not_ at you, alright?”

Connor blinks up at him hopefully.

“Really?”

Hank can't help the little curl of his mouth at Connor’s question, nodding a little. He's bracing himself for what comes next, but for just a second, it's alright.

“Really, kid. Now c’mere, lemme see it.”

As quick as it had gone, that unbridled excitement is shining out of the kid’s every goddamn pore as he eagerly presents the cake. Finally, Hank forced himself to look at it, and he nearly loses his goddamn mind right then and there. It's ugly, there's no getting around it, but endearingly so in that way that screams of love poured into the batter. The cake is uneven and lopsided, and smothered liberally in baby blue frosting. There are candles neatly sunk into it, and Hank knows without a doubt there are fifty-four of them arranged precisely in concentric circles. And there, in the middle, spelled out in neat lettering that he can recognise as Connor’s own personal font (though the frosting is wobbly and has been badly fixed) are the words _“Happy Birthday, Dad!”_. A shaky smiley face has been added beneath, and its _obscenely_ cute. There's suddenly something in Hank’s throat. Connor has _never_ called him Dad before, and it makes his own mouth wobble treacherously. He coughs a little before speaking, ignoring how thick his voice is.

“You make this yourself? I thought you didn't have any cooking protocols.”

Connor looks almost ridiculously proud of himself as he nods excitedly

“I did! I was tempted to download necessary coding, but I wanted to do it like a human, so I followed the recipe in the cookbook above the refrigerator! This one was labelled as your favourite!”

_His mother’s cookbook_. He hadn't touched it in years, and the only time Melissa had ever gone near it was for that specific recipe. The last time he'd used it, he'd been making Cole’s cake. Connor had found it, he'd made him his mother’s birthday cake, and Hank isn't crying, he _isn't goddamnit-_

“Hank? Are you alright?”

He clears his throat again and scrubs a hand over his face to wipe away any damning evidence.

“Yeah, Con. I'm alright, just got something in my eyes. C’mon, the candles are starting to drip onto the cake.”

He crosses his legs so there's room on the bed, and Connor moves easily to perch in front of him. It takes a second of him considering his own legs with a yellow LED before he crosses them like Hank’s, a pleased little grin turning his mouth. You wouldn't know it if you only saw him at work, but the kid was gangly and faintly awkward when it came to anything related to _sitting_. It had taken months for Hank to break his habit of sitting ramrod straight with his knees together and hands on his thighs. Now the kid would sprawl all over the couch, but he was still like a pubescent boy learning how to use his own limbs and how to arrange them, almost like a fawn learning to walk. It _shouldn't_ have been as adorable as it was, but Hank has given up on trying to deny how fond he is of the kid. He shakes his head as Connor sets the cake down on the bedspread, and he stares at the cake for a long moment with a strange mixture of joy and grief and fondness and sadness in his chest like a bruise. He lets out a slow breath and looks up at Connor with a smile.

“Well? Are you gonna sing to me or not?”

Connor brightens and nods, but a brief show of yellow spins at his temple before he turns his head.

“Sumo! Come here!”

There’s a quiet _boof_ from the living room before big paws thud towards the room, and the shaggy dog trots into the room to sit beside Connor expectantly. The kid gives the dog a fond pat before turning back towards Hank. His smile widens as he takes a deep breath, something he doesn't technically need, before he starts to sing, and Sumo _awoos_ quietly with him in an odd harmony.

“ _Happy birthday to you!_

_Happy birthday to you!_

_Happy birthday dear da-ad_

_Happy birthday to you!”_

Ok, Hank is crying. He’ll admit it. It's one thing to see it written out in the cake, it's another to actually _hear_ Connor call him Dad. And while it's not a _surprise_ , he's thought of Connor as family for a while now, it brings a painful lump to his throat and a feeling filling his chest to hear someone refer to him as Dad and mean it. It's a feeling he hasn't had in one thousand and sixty days, and he had missed it _dearly_. He scrubs at his eyes again, sniffling a little.

“C'mere, kid. Help me blow out the candles.”

Connor gives him a brilliant grin and scrambles to sit next to him, carefully manoeuvring around the cake. He picks it up to settle it on their knees, Hank’s right knee supporting the left side of the plate and Connor’s left supporting the right.

“Ready, kid?”

“Ready, dad!”

That feeling clogs his throat again for a second before he offers Connor a nod. He bends closer to the cake, and Connor follows suit as they inhale. He blows out a good chunk of them, and Connor catches the rest with ease before laughing a little. It's not exactly a _new_ sound, but Hank feels downright fucking blessed to hear it if he's honest with himself. Connor doesn't laugh too often, not outside the house, and it still feels special to hear the kid be so _human_. He's still fucking crying, but they’re good tears _. Cathartic_ is the word, he thinks. A fork is offered to him, and he takes it gratefully. The hurt weighing on him hasn't gone away, he doesn’t think it ever will, but it's shifted, moved some, become lighter, and he rolls his shoulders back slightly as he sits up a little straighter. He's moving to take a bit of the cake when Connor gasps beside him, and he turns with a raised eyebrow.

“What is it?”

“I almost forgot!”

The kid plunges his hand into his pocket, pulling out a very familiar, very worn old Polaroid camera. Hank blinks at it, taken aback. He hadn't known he'd still _had_ that around the house.

“The fuck you find that thing?”

Connor beams at him.

“In the boxes in the garage, along with the photo albums! They were shoved in the back, but I found them while I was cleaning over the summer. It's where I got the idea to make you cake!”

There's that funny rolling in his stomach again, like overwhelming happiness and sadness mixing like oil and water in a shaking bottle. But it's… it's good. Like the tears. _Cathartic_. He nods, gesturing with the fork.

“Alright, well let's get this show on the road. I wanna eat my cake.”

Connor laughs again, and Hank grins at him as he slings his own arm over the kid’s shoulder to bring him closer as he raised the camera.

“Sumo! Come get in the photo!”

The dog bounds easily up onto the bed, big head bumping at Connor’s forehead as he sniffles at the frosting there. Hank chuckles and shakes his head as he looks at the camera, making sure the text on the cake is visible as Connor presses the button. The flash is temporarily blinding, but he blinks it away as the camera spits out the sheet of thick film. Hank doesn't shake it like his mother used to, he knows better than that. He wants this one _pristine_ if he can help it, especially because he's going to want copies of this shit. Eventually, maybe soon, maybe not, he'll stick it in the photo albums Connor found. The ones he hasn't had the guts to look at for years. But maybe…. maybe with Connor sitting next to him, he can focus on the good times as he tells him the stories about the photos. The kid is still pressed firmly into his side from Hank’s arm around his shoulders, and it's a good feeling, to sit beside someone. No, not just someone. His _son._ He knows Cole is never coming back, his little boy is gone, but maybe someday he'll see him again. And with any luck, he'll get to introduce him to his older brother. Well, younger brother? It's a comforting, if slightly confusing thought, and Hank grins as he transfers his fork to his other hand so he can keep Connor close while he digs into his birthday cake. The photo develops a little while later, and Hank _loves_ it. You can see that he's been crying, but his smile is easy, and Connor has his nose scrunched up as Sumo licks his forehead, and the cake looks even uglier in the flash from the camera and it's absolutely _perfect._ He’s gonna need a copy for his wallet AND his desk, goddamnit, and he might even feel brave enough to put one of his pictures of Cole beside it. It's only right that both of his boys be present, really.  
  


The smell of sweet candle smoke is heavy in the air, and he breathes it in. He can see Cole as he was the last time they celebrated together, green eyes sparkling and one of his front teeth missing from his broad smile as he shouted in the dark.

“ _Happy birthday, dad!”_

Connor’s voice comes from beside him, and he turns to look at the kid as he smiles.

“Happy birthday, dad.”

He leans against Connor slightly, squeezing him gently.

“Thanks, son. I'm glad you decided to celebrate with me.”

And he means it.

* * *

At the age of fifty-four years and one hour, Hank Anderson _loves_ birthdays. He loves the birthday cake that's lopsided and the too thick layer of frosting and the cheerful wishes of the Android beside him. And most of all, he loves his favourite scent in the world.

_Birthday candles._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this piece for my Fave Dad Hank Anderson. Little bit of angst, mostly comfort though bc uhhhhh the next ones I upload are gonna h u r t :P


End file.
